


Recall

by busaikko



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-22
Updated: 2005-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/busaikko/pseuds/busaikko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>RECALL: 1. To ask or order to return; 2. To summon back to awareness; 3. To remember; recollect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recall

Just this one night, Angel, he said, and it was slower and sweeter and _better_ than anything Aziraphale could have imagined (had he ever imagined such things). When Crowley finished making love to him, in the dark of the morning, he wrapped his arms tightly around Aziraphale?s chest and pressed his face into the hollow under Aziraphale's chin.

Worth the effort? he asked, nuzzling, and Aziraphale was amused. He doesn't want me to see his face, he thought fondly, and stroked his hand down Crowley's hair, around the vulnerable curve of his back, until his breathing slowed and he slept.

* * *

  
Crowley was getting dressed, taking pains with his cuff buttons. Aziraphale watched lazily from the bed. He brushed the wrinkles from his white cotton shirt and folded it meticulously into the black trousers. The leather belt was tightened: black boots were pulled on. Finally the sunglasses covered his eyes.

Later..? Aziraphale began, tentatively, but Crowley stopped him with a kiss.

There is no later. I heard from my people, he said, straightening and leaving Aziraphale with only the sounds of his boot heels in the hall.

Try as he might, Aziraphale never could get on with his new infernal colleague.

* * *

  
Crowley was made a _good_ demon, inflicting eternal anguish with the same dull resignation with which he received it.

He did not remember being anything more; not exactly.

He thought that he might have had free will, once.

That where there had been skin, there had been something sweet.

That where he now saw only darkness, there had been gold.

Hell, Crowley thought, when he _could_ think, between torments, was that niggling feeling of having once had something precious, but never being able to remember what it was. He thought he could almost recall a name.

But he never did.  



End file.
